Alive
by icefire-lioness
Summary: Much against her wishes - as she attempts to tell herself - Hermione is roped into tutoring one Pansy Parkinson. The results are far more interesting than anything Hermione could ever have come up with herself. Pansy, on the other hand... HG/PP


_**AN**: Well, this is my second Pansy/Hermione, and now it's around the other way! (You'll get what I mean in a second. I mean, if you've read 'Draw Me In Your Sketch Book. Which you probably haven't. ANYWAY.)_

_I hope you enjoy it!_

-

It's strange, Hermione considers, shifting in her chair, how long an hour can seem. Sometimes it will condense so that the time goes quickly, and other times an hour stretches on and on, twisting off into the grey and cloudy depths of ohgoshIcannotimaginethatthismoviewilleverend.

Pansy coughs quietly, once, stretching out, arms above her head as she yawns – throwing her head back so that her dark hair, cut short only a few days ago, tickles the nape of her neck. Hermione looks away, finding it slightly difficult to breathe.

"Granger," Pansy says eventually, flicking her gaze up to the other girl, "explain this to me."

She points to a place on the parchment with one long, manicured finger. Her black eyes are unmoving on Hermione's face. The Gryffindor girl (courage, courage) stares at the parchment, her heart skittering uneasily.

"Oh…oh…" she says, unable to come up with an answer because _look_, Pansy will not stop crossing and uncrossing her legs, and isn't that skirt _much_ too short? Pansy raises one eyebrow, smiling faintly.

"Granger," she says, and Hermione is quite sure she knows what she is doing. Pansy slides her legs apart slightly, and her chequered skirt bunches and slides so that it is completely and utterly unsuitable.

Hermione looks away, thinking guiltily that her legs are smooth like honey and why is it that some girls wear those stockings that finish off at the thigh, little suspender belts attached to the tops so that they won't fall down? There is something incredibly erotic about that, but Hermione can't think what it is. Hermione isn't very good at thinking when Pansy is around, her skirt all bunches and silk stockings.

Hermione says, "Algorithms," and her voice is unsteady. She looks down again, her breathing strange and wired.

Pansy shakes her head slightly, making a 'tch' noise with her tongue. Hermione thinks; tongue, and nearly melts all over the library floor. There is a long silence, and both girls shift in their seats, doing nothing, just listening to the sounds of each other against the backdrop of heavy pages turning and small sighs, quills spilling over parchment.

Hermione thinks that is unfair of her professor to ask her to tutor anybody, let alone Pansy, but she is a good girl, a nice girl, a smart girl, so she said yes anyway. That and she really_ did_ want a reason to be with Pansy for an hour every second day. She tells herself off whenever that thought enters her head.

"So…" Pansy says slowly, and Hermione's head swings up, her unruly curls tumbling out from behind her wrist where she had held them captive. She blushes crimson and looks down again. Pansy sighs.

"Granger," she says pointedly, and Hermione makes a noise in the back of her throat.

Not only was it a terrible idea to come here today, it was an equally terrible idea to agree to an indefinite amount of these sessions. She is bordering on a panic attack already, and they aren't even ten minutes into the session.

"Gra – nger," Pansy says in a singsong voice, smiling crookedly. Her fingers tent together, and Hermione lets her head fall softly onto the table.

"Are you going to tutor me at all, Granger, or must I find someone else?" Pansy asks, irritated now, and Hermione says, "no!" too quickly, too sharply, too vested in it.

Pansy blinks a slow, dark blink, her eyes black. "Then _tutor_ me," she says in a drawl; low, black and delicious, "Gra – nger."

"I think…" Hermione says, trying to breathe through her nose, "I think we should go onto Muggle Studies. Yes? I don't think I can deal with numbers right now."

"Tired, Granger?" Pansy asks, and though her voice is hardly sly (no more than usual, in any case); she still manages to make Hermione think that she knows.

Oh, she knows.

"Oh, yes…" Hermione says, flushing a little.

Pansy raises an eyebrow delicately, but says nothing. She opens her book, places a finger to the text, and says in her slow, dark voice, "I want to feel passion, I want to feel pain. I want to weep at the sound of your name. Come make me laugh, or come make me cry…just make me feel alive."

Hermione breathes in deeply, her eyes closed. She sways a little – the breath is too deep.

"And?" she asks, and Pansy says, "That's it."

Hermione thinks that it is very fitting. She brushes her hair out her eyes, and then promptly closes them.

"Why do you need me to tutor you, Parkinson?" she asks eventually, and Pansy says, "Because I'm stupid. Obviously."

Hermione snorts, opens her eyes, and then closes them abruptly upon seeing the position Pansy is now in. She seems to have lain herself quite completely across the desk. How she has done this whilst still sitting is a mystery Hermione is in no state to solve.

"You're not stupid," she says, and she doesn't think Pansy is. Perhaps she just doesn't listen.

"I am," Pansy disagrees, and this time when Hermione opens her eyes she is positioned in such a way that her blouse (unbuttoned at the top, quite indecent) falls away to reveal a hint of lace. Blue, Hermione sees, and finds this faintly disturbing. She looks away.

"I don't think you are. And…well, what do you need me for, now?"

"Tutoring," Pansy says, as though it is obvious. Which, Hermione reflects, it should be. Except, as mentioned earlier, Hermione's brain works a little slower when Pansy is around.

"Hm," says Hermione, and rests her chin in the palm of her hand.

"Yes," Pansy agrees, though what she is agreeing to is slightly unclear.

"What does the quote mean?" Pansy asks after a moment, and Hermione looks at her, confused. "What?" she asks, and then, "Oh…I want to feel…?"

"Yes," Pansy says, and cocks her head to one side, like a bird. Hermione thinks she is all tiny bones and feathers like a bird. Soft little things with sharp beaks. Just like Pansy.

"Oh…" says Hermione, thinking. "It's…wanting to feel what life is really like. You know, not caring whether you're feeling pain as well as joy as long as you're experiencing life. I think…I think that's what it is. Or…or, the disappointment and depression of being alone, and waiting for that one person who can make you whole. Do you see?"

"Yes," Pansy says, and leans across the table, her hand coming up in a swift movement, pulling Hermione's surprised head towards her.

Their mouths meet in a cacophony of joyous horror, and the kiss is all electricity. Hermione thinks that Pansy is the strangest thing she has ever seen – so willing to live, so…words fail her. What are you supposed to think, she wonders. Nothing. She lets her fingers work their nimble way along Pansy's neck, toying with the dark hair there.

Pansy nibbles her lip and leaves a smear of lip gloss across Hermione's mouth and the skin around it. It tastes of apple and will leave a scent for a few hours on Hermione. Artistically placed, Hermione thinks, and pulls back Pansy's head as she bites her lip.

The hour ahead of them will most definitely condense, and they will both feel passion, and look, there; Pansy's teeth have drawn hot blood, which feels strangely pleasant; they will feel pain.

"Just make me feel alive," Pansy whispers against the skin of Hermione's necks, and Hermione pulls her further across the desk, and with a small whimper as Pansy's fingernails dig into her, she whispers, "I love you," onto the other girls' tongue.

And there is nothing, Pansy reflects, that brings you so alive as that.

-

AN: Review, my lofflies, or I may have to harm something. Do you want the death of innocent ants to be on YOUR hands? No, I did not think so. *growls threateningly* *winning smile* *confused readers*


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